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in the lobby of the House of Commons. A basrelief represents the scene. The only ancient monument in the nave is that of Mrs. Jane Hill (1631). It consists of a small black effigy, and on the lefthand side of a little skeleton in a winding-sheet, on the right of a vine with bunches of grapes. Ben Jonson, whose bust we noticed in Poets' Corner, is buried on this side, beneath a small lozenge-shaped stone, on which are inscribed the words, "O Rare Ben Jonson!" The story is, that he asked King Charles I. to grant him a favour, namely, eighteen square inches of ground in Westminster Abbey. The only way of fulfilling this request was by burying him in an upright position, so that those who walk over this stone actually stand on his head. It is said that a

passer-by gave eighteenpence to a workman to carve the four words, "O Rare Ben Jonson!" and that but for this the grave of this great man would be unmarked. When, in 1849, a grave was dug for Sir Robert Wilson, next to that of Ben Jonson, the clerk of the works tells us that "the loose

(1806). He is falling back in the arms of Liberty, while a liberated slave kneels at his feet with clasped hands and a face full of gratitude, in commemoration of his labours for the abolition of the slave trade. In the same corner is buried, among others, Zachary Macaulay (1838), father of the great Macaulay, who also was a leading opposer of the slave trade.

Above the west door is the fine monument of William Pitt (1806), who is standing in the well

sand of Ben Jonson's grave rippled in like quicksand," and he saw "the two leg-bones of Jonson fixed bolt upright in the sand, as though the body had been buried in the upright position, and the skull came rolling down from a position above the leg-bones to the bottom of the newly-dug grave. There was still hair upon it, and it was of a red colour."

In the north-west corner, called "The Whigs' Corner," is the monument to Charles James Fox

into a narrow passage, leading into the Jerusalem Chamber on one side, and the deanery on the other. We must hurry over the monuments on the south side of the nave, only stopping to notice one or two. William Congreve, the bad and licentious dramatist, is buried here (1728), close by his friend and patroness Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough. This woman had such an extraordinary affection for the poet, that after his death she had the absurdity to keep always on her table a small ivory

figure of him, and another of wax, whose feet were daily blistered and poulticed by her doctors, as Congreve's had been when he suffered from gout.

On one side of the west cloister door is the monument to Sir John Lawrence, late GovernorGeneral of India, "Who feared man so little because he feared God so much," and above that of the great Indian commander, Sir James Outram. Passing quickly by the other monuments, we come upon one of the most touching in the Abbey, that of Major André, the unfortunate young officer, in the American War of Independence, who was taken as a spy by the Americans, and hanged on the banks of the Hudson River. His youth, and the courage and firmness with which he met his sad fate, won everybody's compassion. A deputation was sent under a flag of truce to Washington, begging that André's life might be spared, or at least that he might be shot, as became a soldier, and not hanged. Washington, however, felt it necessary to make him an example, and refused both requests. After forty years André's remains were brought home to England and buried in the nave (1821). The bas-relief on his monument depicts the deputation to Washington, and also André's execution, although in the latter he is represented as being shot, and not, as was actually the case, hanged. Above the tomb now hangs a wreath of autumn leaves, brought home by Dean Stanley from the spot where he was buried in America. In the centre of the nave, among others, are buried Livingstone, the great African explorer, into whose open grave his faithful negro boy, Jacob Wainwright, threw the palm-branch; Lord Clyde, Sir George Pollock, and Lord Lawrence, with Tompion and Graham, the fathers of English watchmakers in the eighteenth century, whose grave has always been visited with so much interest by their successors in the trade. The philanthropist, George Peabody, whose name will always be associated with the pleasant and airy houses which he built for the poor in London, was once buried here, but his remains were removed some years ago to America. Inscribed on the stone which marks the spot are these words from his diary, "I have prayed my Heavenly Father, day by day, that I might be enabled before I died to show my gratitude for the blessings which He has bestowed upon me, by doing some great good to my fellow-men."

Our pleasant rambles through the Abbey are over, though many interesting monuments we have been forced to leave unnoticed in our brief visits. As we look round once more on this most beautiful and sacred House of God, enriched by the patient,

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loving toil of workmen long ago, many a thought, solemn but not sad, crowds into our minds. Here are the graves of men and women of every rank, age, and position, from the patriot whose memory will always be cherished with joy and gratitude by his countrymen, to the baby princess who could barely fold her little hands and lisp her short prayer ere she died. Kings and statesmen, poets and warriors, grey-haired men and little children, noble youths and saintly women, all lie here together. One Father made them; one Love redeemed them; and we leave them "in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

stance,

and bro

ther Roger had been watching the carriage that held their parents till it was out of sight.

"And we shall be the only grandchildren not there! We shall miss the Christmas-tree, and the children's party, and the mornings at the Zoological, and shall be all by ourselves here, without Father and Mother. It is too bad. Why did you go and catch whooping-cough, Connie?"

"I am sure I did not want to," said Connie, with an injured air. "It was not my fault. I am quite as sorry to miss going to Grandpapa's as you are, and I shan't see Flora either."

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'I think it's horrid," put in Roger, stopping for a moment in his occupation of spinning a bright new half-sovereign on the window-seat. "It's so jolly at Grandmamma's; and there's always cake for tea there," he added, casting a discontented

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look at the table, where Nurse was cutting slices of bread and butter.

"Boys are so greedy," said Mabel, with a dignified air. "The idea of thinking of cake! But I do think it's absurd, everybody being so afraid of catching whooping-cough. Why, Connie is almost well, and Mother said yesterday she did not believe I had got it at all. We might have gone quite well.”

"What, and leave poor Master Roger all by himself!" said Nurse. "I am sure you would not do that. Just think how dull he'd be !"

Roger put the half-sovereign in his pocket, and began to pity himself.

"Well, we shall all be dull together now. I never remember a Christmas when we did not go to Grandmamma's.' "Tea is quite ready," said Nurse. "Have you thought, Miss Mabel, what you are going to do with your half-sovereign?"

"I am going to get a great many cards," said Connie; "I like sending cards, and I shall direct all the envelopes myself."

"Then I'm sure nobody will know whom they are meant for," said Mabel.

Constance coloured, and was going to make a retort, but Roger, who had laid the treasured coin on the table by his plate, now said deliberately, “I shall buy a new cricket bat, and a ship, and a bottle of

gum, and a box of horse-soldiers, and a live owl.” There was a scream from Connie; Nurse laughed, and even Mabel smiled.

"An owl! I am sure you can't have that. Where could you keep it?"

"In my room," said Roger, stoutly.

"Mother would never allow it,' " said Mabel; "besides, you can't buy nearly all that for ten shillings."

"What shall you get, Miss Mabel?" asked Nurse again.

"I don't know," replied the little girl, with a dejected air. "I don't care for anything as we can't go to Grandmamma's."

Nurse looked grave, and presently she said, "I don't think you will have such a sad Christmas as I once did."

"When was that, Nurse? Do tell us about it." "It is a long time ago now, but I remember it all as if it was yesterday. I can hardly bear to think about it, but if you like, Miss Mabel, I will tell you about it." "Yes, do, Nurse."

"I was just Miss Connie's age," began Nurse, " and I lived alone with Father and Mother, for my

brothers had both gone away to work at a distance. Our house was quite a mile from the village, and we should have been lonely enough, only there was another cottage alongside of ours, and the Fullers, who lived there, and we, were very neighbourly together.

"They had only one little girl, and she was just about my age, so Lizzie Fuller and I were great friends. We went to school together Sundays and week-days, and we worked or played together when we were at home.

"On the Christmas Eve I am going to tell you about, we had been up at the school-house practising some carols we were to sing the next day but one at the Squire's, for he always gave the school children a dinner of roast beef and plumpudding at Christmas. When we got home we found Mrs. Fuller and my mother just starting for the village to do some shopping. 'You stay in along with Lizzie,' said my mother; we shan't be gone long.'

"So I went into Lizzie's house, and her mother locked us in. There's so many tramps about,' she said, ' and I shall be back before your father gets home.' We sat and talked for ever so long, and then I wanted to try the carols again, but it was so dark we could not see the book, though we stirred the fire up as much as we could. I'll light the lamp,' said Lizzie, 'I know how Mother does it.' 'You had better let me do it,' said I, 'I'm older than you.' 'It's my lamp, and I shall do it,' said Lizzie, and she lifted it down from the shelf. 'That isn't the way,' I said as I watched her; 'here, give me the matches.' 'No, no,' she said, drawing away that I might not touch them. But I pushed her aside, and in the scuffle down fell the lamp, the lighted match upon it, and there was a terrible flare. She screamed, and I, like a silly girl, ran and got a pail of water, and poured it on the flames. The burning oil ran all about the room on the top of the water, and the curtains and furniture were all on fire. We rushed to the back door, but it was fast. The smoke was suffocating, and we had hardly breath to scream. Then I heard a man's voice, and Lizzie's father burst open the door, and I knew no more till I found myself lying on the grass outside the garden with Mother beside me.

"I learnt afterwards that John Fuller was coming home from work when he saw the glare of the fire through the window, and he broke open the door and carried me out, never thinking but that I was his Lizzie. When he found his mistake he rushed in again, but she was too far gone, and she never roused up nor spoke again."

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They got better after a bit, and used to be very kind to me; but I can never forget, that if it had not been for me, Lizzie might have been living now. And Mother writes me word that John Fuller has been so bad with the rheumatism, and getting in years as well, that she doubts he'll never do much more work. His master thinks so too, and wants his house for a younger man, so John must turn out, and I doubt there's nothing for him but the workhouse. It's a sad Christmas he'll have, I'm afraid."

Mabel sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. Suddenly she started up. "Poor John! Let's send him a hamper, Nurse. Would not he be pleased? There's my half-sovereign."

"It's very kind of you to think of it, Miss Mabel, but I don't know whether it would be quite right, because Master gave it you to get something that would please you, because you could not go to your grandmamma's."

"I am sure it is quite right," said Mabel, vehemently, "it will please me more than anything." "I'll help," said Connie, “I'll give half my ten shillings."

Roger took his little gold coin and passed it from one fat hand to the other, then looked at it affectionately, and with a mighty sigh over the cricket bat, the ship, the bottle of gum, the horse-soldiers, and the live owl, he put it in Mabel's hand, saying, "That's to buy him a plum-pudding."

"There's a dear boy," said Mabel; "now we shall be able to send a splendid hamper, shan't we, Nurse? Do tell us what we must have-a turkey, of course."

Nurse smiled, and said she thought if they would spend their money on John Fuller, some warm flannel would be more useful to him than a turkey.

The children all looked disappointed, but finally agreed to the flannel, only stipulating that it should be red.

"Then there's the plum-pudding," said Roger. "I am afraid, if the hamper is to arrive by Christmas Day, there would not be time to make a plum-pudding; but you might send the things to make it of."

The children with one voice said that would not do, and Nurse went to hold a consultation with the cook, who agreed that a plum-pudding should be ready to pack by one o'clock the next day, "only, you know, we must pay for all the plums and things,' said Mabel, "or else it would not be any fun at all sending it."

The next morning Nurse and the two girls drove into the town and brought back all sorts of odd

"Joyful all ye nations, rise,

Join the triumph of the skies;
With the angelic host proclaim
Christ is born in Bethlehem."

They had hardly finished when the footman brought up a large tray covered with parcels and letters.

"Are they all for us?" shouted Roger, running to the door.

Yes, they were, and soon Mabel was standing at the table reading the directions on the parcels and handing them to the owners.

Grandparents and parents, aunts and cousins, all had remembered the poor little invalid prisoners, and books and toys, letters and cards, appeared in such numbers that the children hardly knew which to look at first. Roger ate his dinner with a ship under his chair and a cricket bat leaning against it, and he turned his head every now and then to look at the noble troop of cavalry formed on the window-seat.

A year has passed away, and the three children are running through the crisp snow to the pretty little lodge at the park gate.

How do you do, Mrs. Fuller?" says Mabel. "We are come to wish you a happy Christmas, and to say 'good-bye,' for we are going to Grandpapa's to-morrow morning."

The old woman comes forward.

"Eh, Miss Mabel, I hope you'll have a very merry time-you can't never be happier than I wish you. Do you mind this time last year? I can't ever forget how poor John and me were sore cast down at having to leave the old place, and began to think the Lord had forgotten us, and then there came that beautiful hamper. We thought it was a mistake at first, till Nurse's letter told us about it, and then I could not help crying to think we weren't forgotten after all. We never felt so bad again, and it was not long before your dear